Neat Freak, Anyone?

The idea for this one came while I was (surprise, surprise!) vacuuming at work. I have been thinking about characters lately, and how my use and creation of them has expanded so much. Now that I work with so many diverse types of people, from so many (both good and bad) backgrounds, I find that my characters become more flawed, more relatable, and much more believable. Anyway, I’ve read some terrific books that involved some rather silly characters, and I think it’s an area that may be lacking in my work. Can’t take yourself too seriously all the time. ;-)

***

Ænemeon looked at Carla. She shrugged and pointed to the flask, which was glowing.

“Remember where we are?” she whispered, and he nodded reluctantly. He’d known strange things could happen in Corland but he hadn’t anticipated strange people.

The woman hadn’t even noticed them, so preoccupied was she with her task. The vacuum cleaner she held was fairly ancient, with real brass knobs on the side and an elegantly-patterned cover that looked like a carpet bag. Several inches of frayed cord dangled from the top of the apparatus, ending in a jagged tangle of wires protruding from the inside of the plastic tubing. Yet the woman didn’t seem to think it odd that the vacuum hummed, the light on the front glowing as she moved it around. Occasionally Ænemeon heard the crackle of the vacuum cleaner as it picked up dirt around the pillar on the floor.

The woman’s hair was tied up in a rag on her head, and she wore a faded apron over a shirt dress paired with worn sensible shoes. She was completely engrossed in her task, so for several minutes they stared, wondering if she was really the one they had come to find. Yet, the flask was still glowing, so that meant there was something for them here.

At last she noticed them, pausing mid-sweep of the vacuum and setting it upright. When she let go of the handle the vacuum shut off, its hum dying to a whine and finally silence.

“Well, who’s this?” she asked, in a crisp voice. She stepped forward, her shoe heels clacking on the marble as she found the walkway.

Ænemeon and Carla glanced at each other and then smiled at the woman.

“I…” Carla began. “We are looking for Lydina. Do you know her?”

The woman laughed, showing perfect white teeth in her very clean face. “Why yes, of course I do! She’s my twin sister.” She winked conspiratorially at them, and Ænemeon thought uncomfortably about two crazy women with dead vacuums. It didn’t reassure.

 “Great!” he said at last. “Well, if you could tell…her, that we need her assistance in finding something very important, we’d appreciate it.”

The woman smiled again pleasantly. “Why, yes, I can do that. I will be right back!” And she stepped over to her vacuum again, touched the handle (it sputtered to life once again), and vanished in the blink of an eye. Carla and Ænemeon took in sharp breaths, then shrugged to each other.

“I hate to say this, but I really hope she comes back,” Carla said.

“Me too,” Ænemeon grimaced. “Let’s sit down in the meantime,” he suggested, and they sat on the edge of the marble walkway, their boots resting in the Corland dust outside of it.

They waited for what seemed like hours, though in reality it was probably about fifteen minutes. Carla had pulled out her harmonica and was playing it soulfully, the music echoing across the shifting twilight world of Corland. She felt the blues when she was in here, and needed to get some of those feelings out of her and into the air.

Ænemeon listened quietly, pondering the vacuum. Perhaps it had been made especially for her, by the Gyrus. After all, the Gyrus did have enormous power, and he had said he made things to help the people under his care improve their lives in Corland. The mists began not far beyond the pillar where the woman – Lydina’s sister, apparently – had been vacuuming, and farther down to his left and his right he could just barely make out the next pillar. Yet there appeared to be no roof here in Corland, so he had no idea what exactly the pillars were here for.

At last the woman returned with a poof, stirring up dust. She tut-tutted, ignoring the children, and began to vacuum up the dust as it settled. Carla frowned and put her harmonica away, and Ænemeon stepped toward the woman.

“Excuse me?” he said. “Your vacuum can’t work. It isn’t plugged in.”

“I beg your –“ the woman responded, finally seeming to notice him. She hadn’t heard a word of him over the hum of her vacuum cleaner. She let the handle snap upright again, letting it go as the cleaner wound down. “Oh dear. Oh dear, dear me.” She stepped closer to Ænemeon, eyeing him in concern. He looked down at himself, wondering if there was a TraveLeach attached to him. But, no, there wasn’t. Nothing but the blackberry jam from this morning’s toast, dribbled on the front of his shirt pocket and a little dust that had settled into his trousers.

“That won’t do at all,” the woman said, reaching toward Ænemeon. He flinched, wondering exactly what she was going to do, but she reached a finger inside his shirt pocket, rubbing the outside with her thumb, over the blackberry stain. “Your shirt is terribly dirty, dearie,” she said. “Can’t go out like that, you know.”

Ænemeon watched where her fingers touched and saw the stain fading. That was…incredible! He stared at the spot when she lifted her hand, realizing he could not tell at all where the jam had struck his shirt. Odd, since his mother had been annoyed at him for it.

Carla blinked at him, her face striking into a smile. “Well, that’s incredible! Say, what is your name? And were you able to find Lydina?”

Recognition dawned in the woman’s eyes as she turned to Carla. “Ah! I remember why I went to see her, at last. I wasn’t certain if you’d been real or only a dream, and if I was really just longing after one of her seed cakes. They are always so very tidy…” Her eyes drifted apart as she stared at something unseen, and then at last she snapped back to reality, her face falling. “But alas! She is not home. She has not been there for some time, I’d wager. I’m sorry, but Lydina is not nearby, so I can’t sense her or help you.”

“Oh…all right,” Carla responded, crestfallen. She was sorely disappointed, for the Whale had distinctly said to find Lydina to help them and bring her back.

When she gazed at Ænemeon, he had some sort of strange gleam in his eye. She wasn’t certain it was a good gleam, but it was some kind of idea, which was more than she had.

“This…sister of yours,” he began. “Is she like you? Does she vacuum the way you do?”

The woman’s face, which had been troubled, split into a smile again. “Why, yes! In fact most people do not know whether they are talking to one or the other of us. Why do you ask?”

“Well, we were asked by a great Whale to bring Lydina back to help us on our quest. But, since she can’t be found, perhaps you can pretend to be her. Lydina, that is. The Whale won’t give us any more information until we’ve found you.”

The woman’s face paled slightly at the mention of the Whale, but she smiled somewhat nervously, her face thoughtful. “Well…Yes, I do believe I could. After all, I’ve been cleaning Corland dust for so long I feel my hair might have turned grey.” She raised a hand to her hair, which was still a vibrant red beneath the rag.

“So…” Carla licked her lips. “You’ll do it? You’ll be Lydina for us? We promise to let you come back here after we’ve gotten the information we seek.”

The woman nodded slowly, her face brightening. “This sounds like an adventure! I have never seemed to have much time for those before.”

“We always seem to have them,” Ænemeon groaned. “So if that’s what you are looking for, you’ll probably find it with us.”

“That settles it, then!” The woman replied decisively. “This is what I shall do.” She raised a fist, and then extended it to the children. “To adventure!”

Ænemeon glanced at Carla, who rolled her eyes. In a half-hearted gesture, both of them put their hands on her fist, and then Carla touched the flask, whisking them away from the dull grey twilight of Corland.

The Return

Slap, slap. Slap, slap. Slap, slap. The sounds of the shutters hitting the house in the night wind of the storm startled Edrea from her sleep, and she opened her eyes in the darkness. There was further darkness, but she could hear the sound of the fire being stirred in the kitchen. The warm scent of her fragrant straw mattress followed her as she rose, reaching behind her to scratch a spot on her shoulder that had been poked by a stray piece of straw in her sleep, and finding the ladder. The wood was smooth beneath her hands, worn by generations of sons and daughters passing it on their way up to sleep into the loft of this house. Her father had once slept up here, across from her aunt Guin, and his father before him. Now it was she and her sisters who shared the small space. The twins fought constantly, quibbling about everything from the placement of their bed mats to the one who should receive the latest dress from Aunt Guin. Now, however, the twins were asleep, quiet for once, and Edrea had some quiet. Her ears were excellent.

She felt her feet hit the cool cottage floor, her left toes sliding off the warm wood of the ladder and making the tiniest plop on the floor. The sounds of the fire drew her, and the smell of tallow made her lips curve upward in a smile. She could feel the sudden heat as she entered the kitchen doorway, and the smell of chamomile wafted to her nose as her smile grew.

"Father." She reached out a hand to him, and he grasped it, his lips brushing her fingertips gently.

"My girl," he said quietly, pulling her onto his lap. She could feel the warm leather of the rough boot he held in his hand, and the rag with tallow he was carefully rubbing into it. "I've missed you, my dear," he said into her ear, handing her the cloth and reaching for his tea. The chamomile overpowered her senses briefly, and she began to work the tallow, feeling the nicks and scrapes on the boot with her fingertips.

"I missed you too," she responded, breathing in Father's woodsy scent and listening hard to see if the twins had heard her rise. They did not stir, and she didn't hear the sound of excited squeals in the loft. They missed many things, though they had no cause to. "Where were you gone this time? Besides -" she sniffed - "Plin Swamp and...and the mountains?"

Father chuckled. "All right, Plin Swamp I confess. You've been there enough times. But how did you know the mountains?"

"You smelled of sage last time you went. When you followed Reena to the treeline last year."

"You, Edrea, are something remarkable."

She smiled. She knew he could see it, even if she could not see his. She wiped her hand on her nightgown from the tallow, and reached up to feel Father's lips. He smiled broadly now, squeezing her in a tight hug.

"Would you like some tea?" Father asked, and she slid from his lap, heading for the larder.

"No, thank you." She counted her steps in her mind. Everyone knew to keep the kitchen floor clear of anything Edrea might trip over. Five, six, seven...And there was the larder. She opened it and reached inside, pulling out the blackberry preserves Mother had made lately, and some biscuits she'd baked herself. The twins had helped her (which was why some of them had burnt; they'd started arguing while Edrea was trying to get the biscuits out of the oven), but mostly it was her work. She had labored long to learn by heart each recipe she could make, and knew the containers by their feel and contents by scent.

"Breakfast?" She asked, spreading a thick layer of preserves on a biscuit and holding it out to Father. His  large hand cupped beneath hers, warm and calloused, and she dropped the food in. "I made biscuits myself," she stated triumphantly, feeling herself grin.

"We-ell," Father replied, and she heard him set his tea down. "Does that mean it's safe to eat? Or that it isn't?"

Edrea laughed, swatting at Father, but he had dodged out of reach. She prepared herself a biscuit and put away the food, moving back toward the fire. The heat stretched toward her, like a wave hitting the front of her body and curling around the edges, seeking for the back. A sudden terrifying memory hit her, as it always did when she encountered fire. The burning sensation of the flames licking her hair, singeing off her soft locks, her hands puffy with blisters, the salty tears that were agony as they fell on her tender skin...

Father had heard her sharp intake of breath, and moved to place his arm around her shoulder, a frame of gentle pressure that she leaned against for support. "You're much steadier now," he said. "And you have Idheus to help you."

Edrea's hand gripped Father's arm tightly, though she was leaning away from the fire now, until she took several deep, calming breaths and at last released her grip. It was then that she heard it: two voices whispering fiercely, and then squeals. Her sisters' noisy feet scampered to the ladder. They had finally discovered Father's presence. He'd come in very quietly so as not to disturb anyone, but Edrea's ears were hard to fool, and the twins must have heard her laughing. Now they clambered down the ladder and threw themselves at Father, giggling and asking, one on top of the other, if he'd brought them any presents.

As Father released Edrea, she felt his hand squeeze her shoulder encouragingly, and she busied herself with his now-empty tea mug by the fire, the tiniest smile flitting across her features.

An "Offal" Short Story

Well, I have been writing a longer story, which I plan to become a book. But I thought I should not neglect my blog. So, as a gift, I'm going to write something using random inspiration. Dictionary.com's "word of the day" is offal (which is awful, I know, though maybe not as bad as the pun I just made) I'll use the offal. And inspiration: GO! 


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He knelt down in the dirt, his fingers brushing the top soil. The loam was rich this time of year; the cabbages growing inches from his knee were larger than last year's. There was another scent that caught his attention, though; something faint and sharp. It did not belong in his sister's garden.

Thimon reached between the cabbages, feeling the soft soil's grit gather beneath his fingernails as he rummaged around for the foreign object. Finally he found purchase in a smooth wooden handle, unearthing the small dagger and drawing it out to the light where he could see better. It was very old; the carving on the handle was before his grandfather's time. The symbols that flashed on it he had never seen before, and he suspected somehow they were forbidden. Whatever those things were, they had some power that he did not know of.

He stood, feeling the cool wetness of the soil that had seeped through to his knee, and brushed off the dirt. Something had led him here. He stared at the dagger, at the now-dull edge on its tarnished blade, and the symbols, and pulled open his pouch.

**

"What do you think you're doing?!" his sister, Erli, exclaimed. The blue vein on her forehead throbbed, and as he stared blankly at it her face reddened. "And stop staring at my vein!"

"I don't know what's gotten into you," he grunted, drawing his eyes away and trying not to laugh. Usually when he did that his sister felt silly for making a spectacle and stopped shouting. "I only looked at the thing once."

"And now you feel things," she spat, turning around to stir the stew bubbling over the fire. "And you smell things that don't belong. And I don't know why that thing was in my garden, but I don't want it here. If Nurick came home and saw you holding that..." her voice trailed off. Erli sighed and turned back to her brother, wiping her hands on her apron. "I just don't want to see this take you over. It won't bring Father back."

Thimon frowned, his grip on the dagger tightening as he swept it off the table and back into his pouch. "I know that. I knew you'd say that. As if I didn't remember. As if I forgot that he's dead."

"Thim..." she broke off as he stood, his leg pushing the chair back so it scraped the wood floor harshly. "I- I didn't mean it. Thim, come back!"

He was already out the door. He'd hoped she would understand that he couldn't take it back. The dagger was his now, and the stone too. Whatever the thing was. He hadn't meant to look inside it, to see the strange flashes of light and hear the voices that dwelt therein, but somehow it had...it had made him, as odd as it had felt at the time. And his fathter's voice had been one of the ones he had heard.

And Erli had been just as she always was: skeptical and stern. Like Father, only with looks of pity that made it much harder to bear. And her husband, Nurick, was forbidding and brusque. Thimon still wondered what she had ever seen in the man that would have possessed his beautiful sister to marry such a man. He had no time for Thimon's grief, or his music. He had nearly tossed his flute into the fire before Erli had stopped him last week. Thimon felt the small wooden instrument, the last thing his father had made him, clinking against the dagger in his hip pouch.

The town's busy day was winding down; the merchants' shops were closing, the beggars from beside the baker's shop were huddling together against a cool autumn night in the alleyway, and Thimon passed the doctor on his way out of town toward a house call. Everyone seemed completely oblivious to anyone's plight but their own; he felt invisible. He slumped against the outside wall of the tavern, feeling the stone's presence hot against his neck. He pulled the string out of his shirt and stared at it. Erli had said it wouldn't bring Father back, but he was sure he'd heard his voice in there somewhere. Perhaps, if he had a little more clarity of mind, he could do it. Just now his brain was muddled and wandering. He slipped the thing back into his shirt and stood. Perhaps there was someone who might understand him.

**

"Well, I can't say as I've seen anything like this in quite some -" The town historian stopped, frowning. His tobacco-stained fingers moved with dexterity over the dagger's surface and he seemed troubled. He pointed to the symbols on the dagger's handle. "D-do you know what these is, boy?"

Thimon shook his head. "I have never seen anything like them. I just found the thing. In my sis -" he cleared his throat. "In the woods. What are they?"

The old man paused before speaking. The wad in his mouth moved from one side to the other while he thought. Then he leaned over and spit into a tin on the floor. His knobby hand reached up to scratch an itch on his shiny pate, and his eyes moved from the dagger to Thimon's face. "They's writin', boy. These here are letters, and letters form the words, and with words you can make ordinary objects speak of their own accord."

Thimon's eyes widened. "Writing? B-but I thought -"

The historian nodded gravely. "Yes, you thought writing was forbidden. Well, it is, boy. It is. But it hasn't always been so." He wrapped the dagger up in a stained cloth that was lying on the table. "Don't show this to anyone. My advice: go bury it back up in the woods. And dig a deep hole, son. If you get caught with that..." he shook his wrinkled head. "It's not worth dyin' for."

Thimon tried to keep his hand from shaking as he took the dagger back and put it in his pouch. "But you won't...you won't tell anyone...will you?"

The man shook his head again, waving at Thimon. "Haven't I known you since you were a little one? I wouldn't do it. But there's not a one who can protect you here. Or, leastaways, no one who can that will. Get rid of it. Soon."

Thimon stuttered his thanks, left the loaf of bread he'd brought for the man on the table, and left with his head spinning. Writing? But that had been forbidden to anyone since...since his father was a boy. And he frowned now, thinking of the glint as light hit the symbols. I wonder what it says, he thought, his hand automatically going to his pouch to feel the bulge of the wrapped dagger. And he knew, at that moment, that he could not destroy it. He would wonder for the rest of his life. Perhaps he could go the rest of his days without knowing how his father had died. Or where he had gone the night before his death. But this...this was something he could not let go.

**

The wind was picking up; autumn evenings were beginning to grow much cooler. Thimon struggled against the chill, pulling his too-small wool cloak around him. He was glad Erli had insisted it have a hood, even though he was mocked for it (hooded cloaks were not in style in the town just now), because he could feel the cold biting at the tip of his nose when he turned to see the sign at the crossroads. He only wished he hadn't grown out of all his clothes this year. Too-short pants and sleeves were not a good thing, but money had been scarce from last year's meager harvest, and so he was making do.

Thimon glanced around at the woods. He'd come half a day's journey already, farther than he had ever been away from home in his life, and by the time his sister thought to send for him, he would be far enough that she would not know where to look. Perhaps then she would think about her words, and her choices. And maybe, deep in her heart, she might someday forgive him.

A small copse of trees provided him with shelter for the night, and he built a small fire, pulling out the hare he had killed on the roadside with his small bow. He was glad to see that it had worked. Feeling around in his pouch, his fingers brushed the dagger, and he paused momentarily before settling on his hunting knife. In a few quick slices he had removed the offal and then set to work skinning the small creature. His fire crackled with the sputtering juices of the meat as he turned a small spit, contemplating his next movement. Perhaps he ought to go to the coast...writing was not forbidden there, but the people were proud and lordly. He would stick out, and the magistrates would know he was from the Ong province where writing was not allowed, and he didn't want to think about what would happen to him then. So, he could take his chances with the southern wilderness, but he didn't know much about them. Or the east...The east would be a long trek. There were a great number of towns where his kind would be noticed between here and there. He'd have to skirt all of them, and follow the road without traveling on it. But he'd chosen the dagger now. The unknown. He couldn't go back, and the mystery of the strange symbols and their powerful ability to speak to anyone held him captive.

He was the prisoner of his own curiosity.

I will never name my child Karen.

Just sayin'. I don't know why I wrote this. It's old. But I still like it. :-) Enjoy!


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Kierana Nelson burst through the front door of her house, her lungs expanded, breathing hard.  She jogged into the kitchen and grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl, all the while keeping her motion steady.  Then, throwing in a few jumping jacks for good measure and to slow her heart down, she plopped onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

Then, she suddenly felt a draft coming from somewhere.  Peering around the edge of the wall dividing the living room and the dining room/kitchen, she saw that the front door was open.  Must have left it open.  She got up to close it, but stopped when she saw the footprint.  There on the carpet, in black mud so dark she knew it would never come out, was the print of a boot.  She glanced down to be absolutely sure.  She was wearing cross-trainers.  And the boot mark was too big to be hers.

Had it been there when she entered?  Or had the intruder since come into the house?  She gazed at the stairs, and began to follow the lead of black footprints up the stairs.  Whatever had happened, it was probably just a homeless person looking for a place to sleep.  Except she couldn't make herself believe that.

Kierana's heart rate began to pulse higher again, her breathing becoming agitated and gasping.  She reached into her pocket for her inhaler as she felt her airways close, but she couldn't seem to find it.  Digging deeper, she wheezed her way up the stairs.  Glancing behind her, she saw the orange and white container that carried the precious gases on the floor at the bottom of the stairs.

She swore quietly and continued her ascent.  If she didn't go now, she would never have the courage or the breath to climb the stairs and see who was, or had been here.

Just as Kierana reached the top of the stairs and took her first step down the hallway, she heard a small pop.  And right then, she knew.  She knew who it was that had enough gall to enter her house without permission, and tromp upstairs in muddy boots.  A person who habitually chewed nicotine gum and popped it annoyingly in people's ears.

Her half sister, Karen.  The name seemed ill-fitting, as one that was normally assigned to a sweet, gentle person who was cautious but kind.  As Kierana entered her bedroom, she took in first the black combat boots, muddied most of the way up, the fishnet tights, revealing toned calves and taut thighs.  The red pleather skirt that barely covered ten inches of body.  The matching painted-on top that reached two inches above Karen's navel.

Karen had a sneer on her heavily made-up face as Kierana, gasping, knelt on the floor in front of her. "I knew you would bow before me someday, sister," she hissed in her contralto voice.  Her long black hair swayed seductively behind her head as she spoke. "I have come here to give you something."

Kierana laughed. "Give what?" she wheezed. "What could you…have that I would possibly…want?"

Karen reached into her leatherette purse and pulled out something small and silver.  It was a cell phone, Kierana realized as her blurred vision snapped into focus for a second.  Karen's inch-long crimson acrylic nails seemed like bloody talons as she held the phone out to her sister.

With trembling fingers, Kierana took it, leaning close enough toward her half sister that she caught the faintest scent of cigarettes.  Suddenly, the tiny phone in her hand rang, startling her out of the reverie she had unconsciously drifted into.  She had enough sense to press the accept call button and gasp "hello?" into the receiver.

"Kierana?" The voice that came through on the other end was heavily scarred by static, but she knew it well.  It sent chills down her spine to hear it now.  It was her husband's voice. "Kierana, it's me, Jack.  Are you there?"

"This isn't possible," she began to sob to Karen, who had taken a few steps toward the door. "He's dead, I saw him myself!"

"Kierana!" Jack's voice cut through her hysteria, and she silenced her sobs for a moment. "I can't find a good way to say this, but it was necessary, honey.  It was for your protection.  Karen helped me."

"What?" She could hardly believe her ears. "Are you saying you …you staged your own death?"

"In a manner of speaking, yes." He replied calmly. "You know my missions were dangerous.  I had found out that some men were searching for me.  If I hadn't done what I did, they might have found you.  I couldn't let that happen."

Kierana didn't reply; she simply wept into the phone.  Tears and her asthma attack had blurred her vision beyond sight now.

Something hit the carpet beside her with a small plop.  She reached instinctively for it, and found her inhaler resting in her palm.  Karen stood in the doorway. "I've got to go," she rasped. "Gimme back my phone and I'll be gone."

"Kierana, I'm coming to see you.  I'll be there as soon as I can.  I am sure that the danger is past, or I wouldn't have sent Karen.  She checked for signs of anything amiss before revealing what you needed to know."

Kierana inserted the inhaler into her mouth, pushing down the release tab and sending the chemicals into her airways.  She coughed over the fumes, but managed to press the end call button and hand the phone to her half sister.

Karen turned toward the door and stopped. The rising sun left a reddish glow on her face as she focused on the east window. "Good to see you again, sis."  And she was gone.

Not my idea, but my own twist...

This is a story idea that my friend Tracy Tanner came up with. Actually she wrote like 2 sentences to me in a chat describing the beginning and I was like "I feel a STORY coming on!" and then proceeded to completely go off-track and come up with this ridiculous story and these characters. But as it's her actual idea (and she had a completely different take on everything) I will just post it here. No professional pursuit with this story, though the characters make me laugh (and intrigue me also). Also, don't steal the idea. It's not mine. Poor girl deserves to have some credit for her own brilliant ideas.


You can decide how it ends. Obviously I have my own ideas, and might post the "last chapter" of my story-idea later if I decide to write it. Otherwise, use your imagination. That's really what this blog is about, anyway.


Buon Appetito!


EDIT: I know this isn't a short-short. I got really inspired. xD I actually have more, but this is the shortest and best part of what I have.


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In the dusky moonlight the sun's heat and light had faded to a dim glow, the sand reflecting a half-moon's gleam across the desert. Grif paced the rooftop. Tomorrow she would arrive. Tomorrow he would...he wasn't ready for this. It was supposed to have been a simple matter. He'd sent the appropriately irreverent messengers to the king and demanded his daughter's hand in marriage in exchange for his own, ahem, lack of involvement in the king's affairs of crops and cattle. The king would refuse, he'd assumed, preposterously and arrogantly, and Grif would have had no choice but to take for himself what he required. Typically, his “business” involved protection of land in exchange for a small portion of the profits on said land, but if the need arose, he wasn't entirely above pillaging.

In the face of his demands, however, the king had readily agreed, seeming eager even, to letting his daughter leave, riding a carriage off to a life she'd never been prepared for, to live in a dusty sand brick house with only one servant and a man with filthy boots. And Grif hadn't gotten his cattle and crops, both of which he had needed and had been so looking forward to enjoying. The winter months lay ahead yet, and his “organization” was running low on supplies. They couldn't attack, not at this weak time; with the passing of his employer, Ien, many of the men had defected at that time leaving him in the lurch. Still others came, without experience but with empty purses and stomachs wanting to be filled. Arlon's men had taken over seven of Grif's encampments since Ien's death, capitalizing on the force stretched thin across what had once been a well-fortified domain. And he would have to tell his men no, once again, no bonus until they had acquired some substantial wealth or taken back their own resources.

Who this princess was, he had absolutely no idea. He had not heard yon tales from far and wide of her extravagant beauty, or her grace, or her beautiful bell-like voice. He hadn't heard anything at all, in fact, except that she was a princess and the daughter of the king of Irp. She'd fit the bill for his deceptive manipulation and he'd played every part as cunningly as he could have. He was afraid now, as the thought struck him, that she might be ugly. What if she was thirty-five, with a sagging face, warts on her nose and crooked teeth? Or simple? Could he bear to have a wife who he was ashamed to speak of because he did not want others to mock his name? Was this any way for a true raider to live?

His trick with the king was precisely what Ien would have done; somehow, ridiculously, it hadn't worked. And he didn't feel like very much of a success, though Ien had confidently passed on his responsibilities. Perhaps the old man had indeed been daft.

The wind off the desert was cool now; it chilled his bones, and he shivered involuntarily, staring at the clouds milling around the moon. They were a deep purple color, imbued with a borrowed brilliance and shifting like specters across the white half-globe of the moon. Grif laid a hand on the door, and as he opened it, the creak of the wood startled a thought in him. Why...why hadn't he thought of that before? It was a plan. Lurking deep in the recesses of his mind, a plan to free himself from this unwanted entanglement.

“Erron!” he hissed as he ducked inside. His second-in-command looked up from something on the desk he was bent over. “Erron, I have a task for you. Choose four men to go with you.”

“Sire,” Erron protested, “There are still many details to set in order before the princess' arrival tomorrow. I don't know if -”

“This is to preclude her arrival,” Grif responded impatiently. “Now go. Four men. Hurry up, and choose good horses. Take a decent sack with you and an extra saddled horse.”

Erron shot him a strange look but obeyed, exiting the room while Grif went to the chest in the corner. It was a stash he held for emergencies such as this. He unlocked it with a key that hung on a string around his neck. Several strands of jewels, pearls, gold coins and a ring or two of undeniable beauty tumbled out of his hands as he scooped them onto the floor. Several minutes later, Erron returned, carrying his sack.

“Take this,” Grif said, shoving the jewels into the sack, “To the princess. Give her the jewels and the horse and tell her to go. Go anywhere. She is free. I can't...” He shook his head, rubbing his face with his hands. “I can't take her to be my wife. I don't know why her father agreed to this in the first place.”

Erron's bemused eyebrow shot up. “You are serious?”

“Does it look like I am making a joke?”

“Right.” Erron snatched up the sack and headed for the door. He turned at the last moment on his heel and grinned at Grif, who threw a silver spoon at him. He dodged it and chuckled his way down the hall.

Grif woke in the darkness to boot heels clunking down the hall. One of Erron's less-favorable qualities was his ability to wake the dead by stomping around heel-first into any place he went. Thankfully he was loyal, but Grif avoided sending him on missions that involved stealth.

“Sire,” he began, and Grif rolled over with a grunt. Torchlight flooded the room as Erron entered, and the door creaked shut behind him. Grif sat up and rubbed his eyes, thinking that he should not be waking up until it was morning.

“What?” He inquired. “Couldn't it wait until dawn, Erron?”

“Well, I thought you should know,” Erron began haltingly. He hesitated, and Grif's eyes wandered to his belt. The sack of jewels was still there. “We did intercept the princess' carriage, as you asked.”

“And...?”

“And she wasn't there. I couldn't tell her to leave because she'd already done it.”

Grif flopped back onto the bed. “Truly? And none of her servants had any idea?”

“Well...” Erron shrugged. “They didn't seem particularly surprised. They didn't know she was gone until they opened the door, but I got the impression she escapes them often.”

Grif passed his hand over his eyes. This day was growing worse by the minute.

“Hertun, my lord,” responded the servant with a measured voice. He was a man of high stature in society, chosen with the (apparently) markedly difficult task of keeping track of Princess Ihramoa. “I have served the princess since she was just a babe. If you will let me -”

Grif sighed. If only it were that easy. But he'd paid the dowry, he'd insisted on Ihramoa, and now he had to take this responsibility. “No, Hertun. I must go look for her myself. I'm afraid that is my only option. Perhaps you have looked for her before, and I would appreciate any help you can give, but...I must use my own resources to fetch her to me. You may either stay here with me until she returns, or go back to Irp. It is your choice.”

Hertun inclined his head slightly. “I will stay here, my lord. Perhaps I can be of some assistance.” Whatever Hertun had done to obtain Ihramoa's father's disapproval, the king must have overreacted. Grif would not have had the patience to stand idly by while his charge escaped and ran off time and time again, powerless to stop the source of the princess' discontentment.

“Erron,” He said, and his lieutenant stepped forward from the shadows of the tent. “We'll move out in two teams. Four men each. Have them ready by sundown.”

“Yes, sir,” Erron replied, striding to the tent flap and making his way outside. Grif turned back to Hertun.

“Now,” he continued, “Tell me everything you can about Princess Ihramoa.”

“We'll head to the last village the caravan stopped at. It's likely she went there. Perhaps someone saw or heard something we can use.” The men spurred their horses in answer, and Grif took off uneasily. He was nervous about horseback riding, and had been ever since he'd been kicked and bitten by his predecessor's horse a few years back. As a child he hadn't even ridden one, and though Ien had tried to teach him how to handle himself around the beasts, there was always fear lurking in the back of his mind. He usually traveled by carriage or wagon when he could help it. Not very dignified, but he told himself that the dignity was in how he chose to act, not how he appeared. It didn't make his men's attempts at hiding their grins any less irritating, however.

The ride to the village took several hours, and they were all of them uncomfortable. Grif's backside was saddle-sore by the time they reached the village outskirts, and in the cool, dim light of the moon the village looked eerily asleep. Grif gingerly dismounted, his legs burning even as the stablehand took his stallion and he headed for the inn. Erron smiled tightly, not betraying any emotion, as he turned down the corridor.

“Don't worry, we'll be back at Desyf in a day or two,” he said reassuringly. “And you can pay the princess and all will be well.”

“I hope so,” Grif responded, thinking of Hertun's tight-lipped descriptions of Ihramoa's creativity. “Anyway, we can ask the village people tomorrow about her and see if anyone's seen a young lady without an escort.”

“See?” Erron replied. “Shouldn't be that hard to spot. I told you, it'll be easy.”

Nothing. No one in the village had seen the girl, or heard the girl, or heard tell of a girl running around unescorted. “What, a young lady disappearing under your guard? You'd better find her! Poor thing is all alone out here, probably scared half to death.” The merchant wives prattled on long after Grif and his men had realized there was little of value in their conversation, at least concerning the princess.

“Well, I haven't seen any girls around here I don't know,” responded the innkeeper. “In fact, we haven't had that many travelers around here at all. Except the usuals. Now, Lokri over there might know, if that lass has been gone a few days. He's come from the south this week, stops in here every once in awhile and has news from all over.” He'd pointed to a tall, lanky traveler sitting alone with his dinner in the corner. Grif sighed. The princess had only been gone a day or two, so a traveler who'd been here in the village shouldn't have any information anyone else had. Still...he stopped at the table and flipped a coin onto it. The heavy silver piece tinkled, and a dusty hand with a young man's slender fingers slid out to grab it.

“I don't know if you can help us, but we're looking for a young woman who might've passed you in the street earlier this week. Anything you can help us out with would be appreciated.”

The traveler's guarded expression did not change as he gazed up at Grif. His brown eyes shifted from Grif to Erron and back. “How much appreciated?”

Grif plunked three more coins on the table. “Depends on how much you know.”

“'Nother trader left yesterday,” he grunted. “He said he'd talked to a girl desperate to leave. She'd been hiding so no one could recognize her. She wanted passage to cross the sea at Throll. He said he'd given the poor thing a little money and she'd gone right away.”

Grif's eyes flicked to Erron's as his heart sank in dismay. A long trip? And it would have to be on horseback, no doubt.

“Thank you,” He said, patting the young man's thin shoulder and striding for the door. He was thoroughly annoyed and needed some time to think. Erron didn't follow him as he left, his boots scuffing the planks on the walkway and his mind whirling with disappointment. This girl was turning out to be a painful reminder of his incompetence. Just when he had been hoping his men were beginning to respect him. He sighed, leaning against the side wall of the inn. Just at this moment, he was wishing Ien had been a farmer. But he couldn't complain; Ien had been like a father to him. He'd seen a potentially-useful worker and asset in a street urchin with no parents, seen through the dirt smeared on Grif's face, through the lice on his scalp, to the deft hands and easy grin. Grif had just been glad for some food he didn't have to steal and a bed at night, and didn't mind at all that his caretaker made him shave his hair to be rid of the lice.

Still, Ien could have chosen a less demanding profession, with less pillaging and dirty work. It was exhausting, and Grif was fairly certain that he would never have the confidence to pull off a scheme like the ones Ien had pulled to frighten people into giving of their resources freely. Somehow, perhaps by sheer orneriness and charm mixed together, Ien had even managed to make these people like and appreciate him. He protected them and their crops for a fairly reasonable rate against his own expenses. Grif's men did a lot of protecting, but since Ien had been killed there hadn't been much in the way of payment, and the drought wasn't helping.

His thoughts were overwhelmed with the business of his own life, and he remembered with a start why he had come outside. The princess. Long gone by now, no doubt. He'd have to ask at the nearby farms and see if anyone had seen her or heard of her coming their way. Perhaps she thought she had eluded him and his men and would be going slow enough to catch up to. If she'd stolen or bought a horse, she might be moving quickly, but if not...

He pushed away from the wall and strode back into the inn with purpose. His men were all out asking anyone left in the town if they had seen anyone, and he paid the innkeeper, ordering a couple days' rations to get them through the search. Then, he'd propped his boots up on a footrest by the fire and waited for the men to return.

 [Interlude in which Grif accidentally stumbles upon Princess Ihramoa removing her disguise as Lokri at a desert oasis and manages to capture her, to her great disgust]

Her face was brown from the sun, her hair bleached almost blonde. It was short like a boy's, cut jaggedly as with a knife, and freckles splashed across her nose. She wasn't pretty, exactly; her eyes were a bit too far apart and her mouth twisted a little on the left when she talked. Her figure was unimpressive, except as a boy's; she was lean and tall, almost as tall as Grif himself, with very little in the way of womanly features to speak of. Straight as a beanpole and her arms were skinny but hung with ropy muscle. Yet there was a snap in her brandy eyes that was full of fire, and though she posed nonchalantly he could almost feel the rope burning her wrists as she slumped in the chair. Grif let his amusement show on his face.

“I find it interesting that I have searched high and low for you, and here you are, under my very nose,” he began. “A bit bold of you to think you could hide from so many, don't you think?”

“And yet,” she countered, bringing her eyes to meet his, “You find me by happenstance in the woods, your resources, people, and questionable hunting talent aside.”

Grif laughed easily. He was enjoying her spirit, if nothing else. “Perhaps it was more than happenstance.”

She snorted. “I've walked past you a dozen times this week and you didn't know me. I have escaped from far more intelligent men than you.”

“Perhaps, but none so persistent,” he replied. “In any case, you owe me an explanation, I think.”

“I don't owe you anything,” she spat, clamping her mouth shut and looking away.

“Well you were promised to be my bride, you know,” he added, hoping that he would get some sort of reaction. It wasn't what he'd hoped. He tried again. “I paid your dowry, and for a man like me that isn't a small thing, and you up and left before you could reach my doorstep to at least tell me to my face that you didn't want to marry me.”

“I've been promised before,” she responded at last. “It doesn't sit well with me.”

Something in her expression struck him markedly. Certainly she was not to be trifled with, but more so, she was utterly devoid of any grace whatsoever. It was not the casual guttersnipe that he had stumbled across in the oasis; she was purposefully mannerless. It forced him to step back, recoil, even, and reconsider what he had seen. Perhaps it was this that drew him to her now, gazing into her bright, intelligent eyes. Eyes that were not misted with tears or hopeless, as so many women's eyes would have been just now. They were hard. Yet he stepped closer.

“I am sorry,” he said softly. “You have been treated as only a possession your whole life. I cannot say that I have valued you above that which you have ever been seen myself. But I am willing to try.”

He loosed the ropes, and in a flash and a blur of fabric, he felt a sharp pain in his nose, and the pain of his back hitting the ground. Then her footsteps as she dashed through the sand out of his tent and into the square of his village. A strange, ticklish sensation warmed his face as blood dripped from his left nostril and wandered down the side of his cheek. He laid there, waiting for the scuffle, the expletives he was sure she had been saving for him, the re-tying of the bonds, tasting the salty edge of the red river at the corner of his mouth.

At last he moved, rising and gingerly daubing a handkerchief to his nose, finally wiping the blood from his face and neck where it had dripped. He wrung the cloth out in a basin of water and gave himself another cursory swipe, and then tossed it back into the basin and waited patiently.

Several minutes later, Erron and two other of his men dragged a struggling young woman back into the tent. Her hair floated around her head like a golden halo, or straw floating off a tossed bale, and her eyes flitted around, her nostrils flaring, like a wild horse. Grif entertained the comparison, seeing the haughtiness that caught in her eye when she wrenched her arms from Erron's grasp. He also noted that his second-in-command had a hastily-smeared blood streak on his face from his nose, and hid a smile. Erron had been ready for her, and this young woman had still managed to best his defenses.

“So,” Grif said when at last her hands were once again tied, “You now have an idea of how I run my business. Your hands will be tied until I can trust you to keep yourself under control. And you left before I even had the chance to get to the interesting part.”

Her mouth would have twisted when she spoke either way, in a disinterested sneer. “I was in perfect control of myself. And I highly doubt you know much that is of interest to me.”

“And that,” Grif responded, “Is where you are wrong.”

Moa carefully tucked away every detail as he spoke. It would be a good way of defeating him later, when he'd at last let down his guard. To be tied up like an animal was testament further to the fact that they could indeed not keep her here. Sometime they had to untie her, and when they did...she wouldn't take the streets this time. There were a few wooden crates stacked up next to the mud brick building next door, and they should support her weight until she could grab ahold of the roof edge. From there she could jump across to the next building, she thought. They weren't far apart. She’d done it many times before, when she’d been forced to steal food for lack of money, during one of the times when she’d been gone longer than usual from her palace prison. And the village wasn't large. If she could just find a horse or pack mule somewhere she could get away for good. And they wouldn't find her this time.

Although, if they sent Hertun...hopefully they wouldn't until she was gone by several days. Hertun was the only one who could find her, track her movements, see through her disguises. But if she had a three-day head start, he might not get to her before she could get on a ship at Throll and be gone.

Grif seemed to be gauging her the same way she was him, though of course he did so openly. Moa had done nothing but scowl at him and make angry remarks, but he seemed to be shrewder than she had at first guessed. Perhaps he had noted not to underestimate her. Then she thought of his men waiting for her around the corner, and pushed the memory away. She wouldn't admit that he had outsmarted her twice now. Anyway his finding her in the oasis didn’t count, because that was pure chance. Cursed luck. Grif opened his mouth, and she noted that he had a silver tooth tucked away near the edge of his smile.

“You might actually want to hear what I have to say,” he said. Not likely, Moa thought. “Your father will be wanting proof of our marriage and that I've held up my end of the bargain, which is to care for you and raise offspring.” Moa recoiled in her mind, and only just managed to keep her face from twitching. There was only one thing in this world she feared.

“Naturally, neither of us are particularly accomodating to this idea,” he went on, and Moa breathed an inner sigh of relief. “I will not marry someone who is unwilling. I could never...” He trailed off, his gaze finding the tent door, or some other scene long in the past. Then his eyes refocused on her. “I won't do that. But your father will want proof that you have produced some possible future heirs should your sister produce no children. Now, I propose that we wait a year. You can stay here, work with me – I'll pay you well, of course – and I'll take care of you for that time. You won't have to worry about survival. I'll give you your own rooms, and servants if you want. I have enough, and I'm sure I can find someone I dislike enough to assign them to you.” He flashed a grin, the silver glinting, and she stared at him, deadpan. It was going to take a lot more than that to win her. His grin faded, and he cleared his throat and continued.

“Then in a year, we'll find somebody's baby in the village and borrow it. Bring its mother as a nursemaid. Take it to your father. Let him see that we've been productive like he wanted. Pretend for a very short visit to be madly in love. Then we'll leave, and before we come back here, if you want, I'll let you go. You can go to wherever, but I won't pursue you. If necessary I'll send word of your death to your father. How I was heartbroken when my wife and only child burned down in our home. Whatever you want. But you'll be free to go. I'm sure that's what you wanted, isn't it?”

Moa let her eyes flick to his face, and then back down again. He was gazing openly, earnestly at her. He didn't hide much. Though, she thought bitterly, he was impossible to read. It was why he had let her go; he had already known what she would do; yet he still managed to make it look like an accident. He had taken the blow and somehow recovered entirely before her return, managing to maintain control of her the whole time. He was not the sort of man who would look kindly on refusal, especially of what he thought of as a generous offer. Then again, it might be nice for her to have something to hide. Well. She hid everything. But something he didn't know about.

“I'll do it,” she grunted. Grif raised his eyebrows. “You are agreeing to be a part of my plan? You will work for me and participate in whatever I ask?”

She shrugged as well as she could with her hands tied. “I'll turn something down if I don't want to do it,” Moa replied, casually looking away.

“Fair enough,” he said, and pulled out a small flask from his desk. “Shall we drink on it?”

Now Moa stiffened slightly. What was he going to give her? She had tasted ale and wine before, but both had been a part of her disguises at various points, and she hadn't cared for either, nor the way they'd clouded her thinking. Not to mention liquor disguised things such as poison with its sharp taste. “In my country we would clasp hands to seal an agreement,” she responded pointedly, and Grif chuckled halfway through pouring from the flask into a tumbler. It was a white liquid, with flecks of something unfamiliar in it.

“I think I'll wait till I've your word to release your bonds.” He lifted the tumbler and brought it to her lips, which she closed firmly and turned her head away.

“This isn't some sort of poison,” he said at length. “It's a drink made from goat’s milk and cinnamon. It is to be drunk warm, and my village has always used it to show good faith in an agreement. If you wait too long to serve it, the milk spoils and you both get sick. So it shows careful thought and a measured ideal. Also, milk is difficult to poison because it has a distinctive taste.”

Moa stared at him distrustfully. At last he sighed and lifted the cup to his own lips and drank most of it, leaving only a third of the milk inside. Then, wiping the milk from his upper lip, he placed the glass in front of Moa's lips again. “I was going to give you the opportunity to drink before me, which is a great honor and my privilege,” he said, a note of warning in his voice. She decided it was best to go along…no need to upset him unduly until the right time. He couldn't have drunk poison himself, so it must be safe. She took a sip and then tilted her head back as he gently lifted the glass, draining the last few mouthfuls. The drink was pleasant, a sharp warm goat's milk with hints of honey and cinnamon. No liquor, no poison. Moa felt a little silly, but she said nothing. She owed him no explanation, trust or respect.

Then Grif's knife tugged at her ropes a second time, and she sprang from the chair. She didn't punch him this time, though she itched to. Moa stepped out of the tent, slapping aside the door flap and feeling her sore wrists. She heard boots behind her, and Grif exited, calling her name. Moa turned, seeing her boot knife in his hand. He held it out to her. He really was going to trust her. She scoffed a little inwardly. Fool. She took the knife without complaint.

Feeling his eyes on her, Moa turned back, walking away as calmly as she could muster.

LOL Freebie.

I couldn't resist.


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He leaned nonchalantly against the counter, waving away the dim smoke of the tavern.

“Yes, we didn't have much to work with back in the days that I ran,” he grunted, accepting an ale from the barmaid. She turned her round eyes to watch him as she listened. “Me and my partner were on the run from the Erls – naturally – and we found a king's ransom in gold chains and coins in a small cave where we had been hiding. Unfortunately they'd just caught up with us and we knew we wouldn't get away with most of it.” He took a swig of his ale, pausing for effect.

“Well?” the barmaid asked. “What happened?”

He grinned, showing a silver tooth and a few more missing. “We swallowed as much as we could. It was the only way to keep them from getting it.”

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Really? How did you get it back? Did you escape?”

He chuckled. “It all came out all right in the end,” he said simply. “Terrible indigestion, though,” he added. Then he flipped two gold coins onto the bar and walked away. The barmaid stared at the coins, as if she was trying to decide whether she wanted to touch them or not. He chuckled as he heard the clink of the coins as she swept them into her apron.

Atonement (Part 1)

Ok, as a side ammendment to my last post: I got an idea for a slightly more extended story. Not a short-short. But I will post short-shorts on here (when I can access the ones I have saved on another computer). Let's start with this thing I came up with first.

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The ground beneath his feet was rough, pebbly; his toes scrabbled at dirt and he could feel the soft soles of his feet as they became raw. He wasn't used to such hard work, nor was he enjoying the feel of the new.

Above his head of blonde, straight hair was a murky sky of questionable intent, clouds roiling slowly as though circling him, deciding his fate. There had been no thunder or rain yet, so he was hoping...Markis closed his eyes as the thunder came after his thought, and rain suddenly drenched him, turning the pebbly ground beneath his feet to slippery, gritty mud.

He stumbled, his eyes filled with rainwater that streamed down his face. He could almost see the summit...there it was, far away and yet so close after all this time. He had nearly finished his journey. It wasn't supposed to end this way, he thought, and yet...perhaps this was better after all. What good had he been to anyone? That he had been chosen seemed now fitting, as his feet and hands began to bleed. The rainwater struck his scraped limbs, adding insult to his injury; yet he continued his climb.

He had almost reached the summit, and he felt the heat singe the hair on his face and arms as he groped for a handhold. It wasn't steep, but the slope shifted beneath him with every movement. The rocks were now burning his feet, and he felt his wounds grow larger, the pain becoming almost excruciating. The village elders would know when he took his last step, feel the mountain's rumbling cease, and Orelao would be appeased. His wrath would subside almost instantly with the passing of a young male villager, and Markis' purpose would be fulfilled. Whatever his village had done in the past ten years to upset Orelao would be erased with his death.

Except he didn't want to die. He was afraid of what might happen, and the thought of snuffing out his life so prematurely frightened him in spite of what he – and every other person in his village – had been told their entire lives. Now, he gazed out at the valleys below, rippling in the heat as his eyeballs dried out from the fumes, but continuing to water with irritation, he saw green. He saw the sparkling blue of something mysterious and incredible beyond his imagination's boundaries. And he saw the sun rising. It was time.

He snapped himself back to the present. He was to fulfill his purpose. He took the final steps to Orelao's mountaintop and smelled the flesh on the soles of his feet burning as he stood there, looking into the lake of molten lava. He averted his eyes, which were streaming with tears, and wondered how long he would feel the searing pain of his own flesh being torn from his bones. How long would he scream? Would anyone hear him at all? Would anyone miss him?

Markis felt the earth tremble beneath him and his knees nearly buckled at the pain in his feet; he pushed all the questions down. They would go unanswered. He drew a last breath, choking on the fumes spat out by the volcano, and leaped.

WHO LIKES SHORT-SHORTS?

Don't tell me you don't. I'm not talking about those ridiculously tiny bottom-covers that don't even do that anymore. Oh, no. I mean those exciting little tidbits of stories that make you ache, yearn to know more. Like the mini jolly-ranchers of fiction, these tiny bursts of action, heartache, glee and passion leave you wanting another, and another. A different flavor next time, maybe something you've never tried before. I love short-shorts, and that's why I'm going to give them to you. Rather than write some long, rambling blog about how much I loooove writing and how it'll be fun and you should come along for the ride, I'm going to give you test drives.

Enjoy.

___________

I'll post my next short-short as soon as I write it. No guarantees on updates, but I really like short-shorts. :D

ME LIKE SHORT-SHORTS!